Lydia stood at the palace entrance, eyes fixed on the path ahead as Ivan’s carriage disappeared into the early morning fog. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Her heart felt like it was being pulled away with the wheels of that carriage.
She didn’t even know why it hurt so much.
Inside the carriage, Ivan found himself turning around. His eyes searched the back window—there she was, still standing in the same place. Why? Why couldn’t he stop looking? Why did guilt claw at his chest like he was doing something wrong?
Why did it feel like he was leaving something important behind?
He looked away quickly, jaw clenched tight.
Back at the palace, Lydia finally turned around and walked back inside. Her steps were slow, her chest heavy. She quietly followed her routine like a ghost in her own body. She bathed, dressed, ate—but it was lifeless. Nothing felt the same.
The days passed slowly.
At the Zolotaria Border
Ivan’s carriage came to a halt near the outpost nestled between Zolotaria and Velgorod—a harsh, freezing kingdom that bordered them from the north. He had travelled alongside General Petrov after news arrived about three missing soldiers. Only two corpses had returned—cold, lifeless, and drained of blood. Locals whispered about spirits, demons, and curses.
But Ivan believed in steel, not stories.
They entered the command office where the report had come in. A senior soldier stepped forward. "Your Highness, we found the first body near the old birch grove two days ago. The second, last night. But the third... we haven’t found him yet."
Ivan narrowed his eyes. "Take me there. Now."
In the thick of the forest, silence ruled. Snow cracked under their boots. After hours of searching and observing, Ivan knelt by a tree.
"Here," he muttered, brushing the leaves aside.
General Petrov came closer. "What is it?"
"Footprints," Ivan pointed. "Human. Heavy boots. And not military-issued."
Petrov frowned. "So it’s not a spirit."
"No," Ivan said. "It’s rebels. Amateurs."
A few meters further, the third corpse was found under a large root. A boy. Seventeen at most. Eyes open. Throat slit clean but shaky.
Ivan studied the body closely, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of the wound.
"Whoever did this had little training," he said. "Rushed. They’re scared. Desperate. And that makes them dangerous."
He stood up and faced the officers. "We’re not dealing with ghosts. We’re dealing with fools trying to rise against the Czar."
"We’ll hunt them," Petrov said.
Ivan nodded. "And we’ll catch every last one."
Lydia tossed and turned all night, the silence of the palace pressing down on her. She missed him—his silence, his anger, his voice. Everything.
By morning, she was curled up in his bed. She didn’t know when she fell asleep.
"Your Highness?" Katherine’s voice knocked on the door.
Lydia opened her eyes slowly. "Katherine?"
"I’ll be accompanying you today," she said with a small smile. "It’s time you began your duties as Grand Duchess."
Before she could say anything, her maids were already preparing her. She bathed quickly, and they helped her into a deep purple dress. Her long hair was brushed and tied into a neat low chignon.
"You look beautiful," Katherine said. "Let’s go."
They rode in a small carriage into the heart of Svetlana. The town was quiet. Snow danced gently in the air, dusting the cobblestone roads. The people walked around, dressed in worn coats, their heads bowed to the wind.
Lydia turned to Katherine. "What exactly are we doing?"
"The past Grand Duchess used to give winter funds to orphans and poor families. It’s been twelve years since then. It’s your duty now."
When they arrived at the edge of the town where the peasants lived, everything went still.
The moment Lydia stepped out, all eyes locked onto her. Fearful. Cold. Resentful.
The village head stepped forward, his wife beside him.
"You should leave," he said before she could open her mouth.
Lydia blinked. "But... you haven’t even heard why I’m here."
"We know," the wife said with clenched teeth. "Everyone knows who you are. And we don’t want anything from you."
The villagers stood frozen, looking at her like she was a monster. A curse.
Katherine touched her arm gently. "We should go."
They returned without a word.
That night, as Katherine helped her bathe, she said gently, "Forget about them, Your Highness. People fear what they don’t understand."
Maybe that’s it... Maybe Ivan isn’t a monster. Maybe he’s just misunderstood. Everyone fears him because they don’t understand him.
Maybe... if they do, they won’t fear him anymore.
Excited, Lydia jumped out of the water, dried quickly, and dressed herself. As soon as everyone left, she took out her diary and began writing:
"I’ll make sure everyone understands him. I’ll make sure no one calls him a monster or the devil again. I want the world to see the human he really is. All I have to do... is get him to open up. I want to understand him more than anything."
She hugged the book to her chest and fell asleep smiling.
Meanwhile, at the border...
Ivan crouched in the woods. Snow fell lightly over his shoulders. He hadn’t slept in two days.
But all he could think about was her.
He remember the night they walked together. How she talked about the night sky and loving to look at it.
The night was beautiful, like she described. But Ivan felt nothing. Just cold and hollow.
A sound broke through the stillness—a soft crunch of dried grass behind him.
Without turning fully, Ivan ducked and spun, catching a shadowed figure trying to sneak up on him. He struck hard, slamming his elbow into the man’s gut and then uppercutting him under the jaw.
The man dropped, unconscious.
Ivan dragged him back to the camp, his knuckles bloodied.
The rebel was tied to a wooden post. The soldiers interrogated him, whipped him, threatened him—but he refused to speak.
By the second morning, Ivan entered alone.
He sat across the man silently, eyes unreadable.
Finally, he spoke. "Do you know who I am?"
The rebel shook his head.
Ivan pulled out the silver mask from his coat. He slipped it over his face for only a second.
The man gasped. "You—You’re the Grand Duke... the Devil..."
He began to shake. "I—I’ll talk... I’ll talk please don’t kill me."
"They—They’re in the forest! A hideout... by the old stone circle... there’s three of us—I mean, them!"
Ivan studied him for a moment. "We’ll see."
Petrov, Ivan, and the head border soldier followed the man’s lead into the woods. Ivan brought the rebel with him, tied to a rope.
But as they reached the hideout, Ivan’s instinct screamed.
More than ten rebels poured out from behind the trees, weapons drawn.
Ivan didn’t hesitate.
He moved fast—one blade to the gut, another to the throat. He ducked, spun, slashed, and stabbed. Blood splattered across the snow. His coat was soaked in red. His face painted in crimson streaks.
One after another—they fell. Begging. Screaming. Dying.
When it was done, only the rebel remained, trembling in the corner.
Ivan looked down at him, soaked in blood from head to toe.
The rebel whispered, "P-please..."
But Ivan said nothing.
One clean strike ended him.
He stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by silence and corpses.